The Dearth of Death
by Sathanas
Summary: Not sure where to put this. I'm not writing about Discworld, but some of my characters are inspired from this fine series. Basically, it's about the Dearth of Deaths in the World of Man, and Death has sent his best operative to investigate.
1. Prologue

/* AN: Some characters inspired from Discworld. However, this is NOT about that nice snowglobe upon four elephants which stand upon a turtle which flies around in an astral plane which has never been meant to fly.  This is just about … well… the Dearth of Death! Some names may seem familiar… but I LIKE those names. So there.

*/

Death laced his bony fingers on his vintage teak desk, a gift from the famous carpenter, Joseph E. Teak, made especially for the Grim Reaper himself to commemorate the latter's long stay in office. The skeletal figure frowned at the silence (Death, being Death, had mastered the fine art of skeletal frowning many eons ago), and gazed pointedly upon his five-ball pendulum, a gift from his granddaughter, Susan, last year. The little steel balls, chagrined at being caught napping on the job, leapt to work. Soon, the study was filled with the rhythmic clacking of steel upon steel. That settled, Death turned his attentions onto his trademark scythe, lying forlornly against the door. His hollow gaze caught sight of a spider, industriously attempting to forge his new home in the space between the doorjamb and the scythe. Alarmed at the attention, the spider jumped and scampered away, wisely deciding to shelve his intentions for a new home until much later.

Death sighed. Something was amiss in the world of Man; it had been a long two weeks since he and his subordinates made their last house call. His minions had taken the unscheduled break in their stride, and were currently carousing till the dead of night (not that it made any difference in the Abyss, whose clocks stayed constantly at one minute to twelve) at the local bar (not that local meant anything either, unless you considered everything in the Abyss as 'local'). _There would be Hell to pay when the Auditors see this, _Death reflected, staring at his poker-faced reflection in his mirror (another gift from Susan. The girl had insisted that a man look proper when going about his job).

A bell boomed sonorously in the vast emptiness of his mansion. Igor, his specially imported butler from Igorian, knocked politely on the door before peeking in.

"Mather," Igor lisped deferentially. "The one whom you are theeking hath arrived."

"EXCELLENT," Death replied. The Grim Reaper had since long given up on trying to correct the butler's self imposed lisp and had learnt to interpret Igorian (after _many_ laborious hours at his desk reading "_Getting to know YOUR Igor_"). He sat up in his chair, a relic from the 14th century. It was a gift from the then reigning king, who decided that he wouldn't be needing it anymore, where he was going. His bones creaked gratefully against the old wood. Oh how they made furniture then! "SHOW HIM IN."

Igor, who prided himself in coming from a long line of successful Igors (he still had his great, great, great, great grandfather's heart ticking proudly in his chest), bowed his scarred head and backed out of the room, in respectable Igor fashion.

Death reached out and fiddled with the hourglass on his table while he waited. The resident sand, as it was wont to do since a fortnight ago, continued its strike and stubbornly refused to heed the entreaties of gravity. The black-cloaked skeleton sighed again.

"The Mather will thee you now, thir," Igor said, careful to keep his eyes fixed firmly on the floor. He was uncomfortable around the cloaked stranger. In fact, his good old heart gave an unhealthy lurch every time he had to deal with one of Death's Angels™ (it was the aura, he firmly believed). Igor had oftentimes reflected on this, and considered giving up the job to his cousin's son, Igor. The youth could most certainly stand the chill emanating from Death's visitors. But, old Igorian pride remained and he resolved never to leave his job until he had to be given over as spare parts.

The tall figure (almost everyone was taller than Igor (except other Igors), who stood, like all Igors, at little over five feet) merely nodded in response. His leather wings shifted slightly.

"Pleathe come with me," Igor said, as he turned back towards the steps he had climbed down from. He had long given up on the age-old tradition of asking the visitors for their cloaks. The first (and last) time he had insisted, he had to be returned to Igorian to change a new pair of eyes. In fact, his eyes still itched when he thought of that horrendous encounter.

  
The stairs complained long and loud as the stout Igor climbed it, but stayed wisely silent towards the visitor. Unlike Igor, the house, which had seen more of Death's visitors, was much wiser, and knew how to treat them. Angels as a lot were extremely weight conscious, and were known to be (sometimes) violently displeased when they perceived that their surroundings thought them as heavy. However, the house was not pretending this time, for the angel it bore now weighed as much as Death on a good day.

Igor took a left turn when he reached the top and presently stopped before Death's door. He gave a no nonsense Igor knock (Grandfather Igor would have been proud) and, at the boomed "ENTER" response, turned and bowed, gesturing at the same time for the visitor to enter. The Death Angel™ inclined his head slightly in thanks, black robes whispering in response to the movement, and stepped over the threshold. Igor waited for a moment, and leaned in to pull the heavy door shut.

"Good morrow, Master Reaper," the angel said when he stopped at a respectable distance before Death's table. "Thou seekst me?"

Death waited for a beat before answering. It was taboo to acknowledge his minions immediately (so sayeth the Book – "Management for Dummies". It was another gift from Susan when he decided to start hiring outside help to do his reaping). It kept them on their toes; was Death displeased? Was he angry? The Grim Reaper felt he was a notch above most managers due to his carefully cultivated poker face.

"YOU CAME FROM THE BAR, LYLE?" he intoned, knowing the answer even before he asked. It was another tip from the Book, section 10.3, "Never answer questions from your min…(ahem) _employees_. Ask _other_ questions."

The angel, named Lyle for as long as he could remember, shook his head. "I doth not carouse with the night mongers." He answered with a little sniff.

Death nodded his head. His best agent since the 12th century, did not, as the Book called, "play with the boys". In fact, he was what the Book would have screamed, pointing giant neon signs and large arrows, as "the Lone Ranger" (Though Death had no idea who the Lone Ranger was. To the extent of his knowledge, which had been amassed since Time came into being, Rangers always operated alone.). For all matters and purposes, Death was not overly worried – as long as Lyle managed to fill his quota (and then some) of souls collected, he could care less. Besides, he was still smarting from the Bar the Auditors had forced upon him last millennia ago (Employee rights, they had stated, the last time they went through his office. Employee benefits, holidays, sick leave. Pah!).

He looked up from his ruminating, and found his emerald-eyed angel gazing steadily down upon him, awaiting his master's response. It was something Death appreciated; not many of his employees could stand looking him in the eye (or eye sockets, in Death's case). He lazily pointed to a chair, which enthusiastically drew itself back and proffered itself to the angel. The latter nodded his thanks, and sat down carefully, after winching his wings in.

"WE HAVE A PROBLEM." Death intoned.

"Yes?"

"I SUPPOSE YOU ARE AWARE OF IT." Death intoned again.

The flat mirrors of his best operative's eyes betrayed nothing. "The angels carousing without care for work?" As much as a loner Lyle was, he was reluctant to betray his fellow angels' trust.

"YES. THERE HAVE BEEN NO DEATHS FOR THE PAST TWO WEEKS."

Silence.

Death leaned forward. "DO YOU KNOW WHAT TWO WEEKS IN THE ABYSS MEAN TO THE MEN ON EARTH?"

"Yes. Twenty years." Came the swift reply.

Death waved a hand, and a spreadsheet popped out from thin air. It rotated slowly so both parties could see its contents.

  
"IF YOU WILL OBSERVE THE GRAPH ON THE CHART."

"It tails off and reached zero a fortnight ago," Lyle answered dutifully. _When did Death start using spreadsheets? _He snuck a glance on Death's expansive (and expensive) desk. Ah… The telltale yellow binding of the book told him what he needed to know; Death was reading management books. He leaned back and tried to recall his anti-management training taken eons ago (things were much simpler then. If the employee did not like the employer, they just took his head off and called it a revolution).

Death leaned forward again (as the good Book sayeth, "_Leaning forward will impress upon thy mi…_employee_, the importance of thy ord…_question). "ARE YOU NOT, IN THE SLIGHTEST BIT, INTERESTED IN THIS INTERESTING BIT OF DATA?"

_Uh-oh, is that a trap? _"Hardly, I art not an Auditor" Lyle replied cautiously. The thing about Death, Lyle had decided a long time ago, was that it was impossible to know what the damned skull was thinking about.

The Grim Reaper sat back. Clearly, some arm-twisting was called for. ""YOU MENTIONED THE AUDITORS. DO YOU KNOW OF WHAT THEY DO?"

There was a long pause. "They…audit?" Lyle replied cautiously.

Death sensed a kill. "WOULD _YOU _LIKE TO BE AN AUDITOR?"

There was a pregnant pause. It looked ready to deliver little pauses anytime soon. Death cast his second pointed gaze of the day at the five pendulum balls again. The balls, intrigued by the turn of events, had fallen silent. Presently, a ball noticed Death's attention, nudged the rest, and resumed clacking, though it was suspiciously muted this time.

The slender frame before him shuddered. "No."

Death pinned his angel with his gaze, like a butterfly collector pinning his favourite butterflies onto a board. "WHAT DO YOU THINK THE AUDITORS WILL DO WHEN THEY COME FOR THEIR NEXT AUDIT, WHICH WILL BE SOON, BY THE WAY, AND SEE US IDLING AROUND."

The angel blinked. And blinked again. He squirmed a little under the hollow-eyed gaze. "They will…"

Death waited.

"I suppose… they will shut the Office of Death down, given that there are no longer any deaths," Lyle finished slowly.

"AND WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO YOU EMPLOYEES?" Death continued mercilessly.

Lyle stared at the skeletal figure, feeling his spine crawl. He firmly informed his spine that it was not going anywhere. With a whimper, his spine settled down, though it still twitched now and then.

"I SUPPOSE A CAREER SWITCH WOULD BE GOOD FOR YOU," Death mused, knowing that he had his prey.

"What doth thou needst me to do?" Lyle said hastily.

"WELL NOW," Death replied, pretending not to hear the angel, "I IMAGINE YOU WOULD LOOK GOOD IN A GRAY SUIT." He eyed the angel's long tresses, "AND GRAY HAIR…" He gestured vaguely at the wings, "THOSE HAVE TO GO THOUGH, AUDITORS DO NOT HAVE WINGS."

"It certainly is an interesting problem. I wouldst be happy to look into it immediately. With thy permission, of course…"

  
Death gazed nonchalantly at the flustered angel before him. "YOU ARE SURE ABOUT THIS? NOT A MOMENT AGO…"

"Naturally! For all we knowst, it couldst be another insidious plan of Life to thwart our duty to reap souls. It is my job as a Death Angel™ to investigate this." Lyle said earnestly. His wings bobbed in response.

"ALL RIGHT THEN," Death replied reluctantly.

"I wouldst do thee proud. When shouldst I start?" asked the angel.

"NOW."

"Now?"

"YES. STEP INTO THE WORLD OF MAN, AND SEEK OUT THE REASON FOR THE DEARTH OF DEATHS. YOU HAVE THREE WEEKS." 

The angel got up and made to leave the room.

"WAIT."  
  
"Yes, my lord?"

"CAN THE MIRACLES."

Green eyes stared at him. "But this canst not be so! Without magic, it wouldst be long and arduous before I find the answer!"

"I AM SURE YOU DO NOT WANT TO ATTRACT _THEIR_ ATTENTION NOW, DO YOU? UNLESS YOU ARE SECRETLY, REALLY KEEN ON…"

"I will do thy bidding, my lord." The angel bowed, and hastily left the room, not giving Death any chance to reply. 

"GOOD." Death said into the now empty room. The balls had resumed normal clacking operations. Three weeks. He would have to prepare for _their_ arrival. Death sighed, his third for the day. Books would have to be docto…_updated_, stocks checked, and pay updated. He wished he had hired a secretary.


	2. Chapter 1

/*  
AN: This chapter may make the Good People who follow a Good Book in their lives a little uncomfortable. 'nuff said.

*/

_The world certainly has changed since death went out of vogue_. Luke thought as he watched the busy streets morosely. Death had been removed, no, _cleansed,_ from the world by Them, but it did not solve any problems. Nope, it had created _more_. It was getting harder and harder to find a job, harder and harder to find an abode, _and_ getting harder and harder to find sunlight as the ever growing skyscrapers clawed the skies.  The industries were now clogged with the Old Timers, and they did not like giving the New Timers any quarter in securing a job. The young man sighed and turned a corner, intending to take his usual shortcut home. It would take him past a dark alley, but at his current state of non-employment, he figured that he had nothing to lose. 

A commotion in the aforementioned dingy alley woke Luke from his ruminations. The young man looked up, and peered into the darkness, at the same time taking a few cautious steps away.

"No, it would please me to know where your nearest leather apparel shop is. I do not want to suck your dick, whatever _that_ means," a clipped and exasperated voice floated from the alley.

"Duh, what's 'e sayin', boss?"

"I don't care, make him suck it down!"

There was a scuffle, and despite his apprehension, Luke found himself just outside the mouth of the alley, straining to hear more.

Silence.

Luke waited. His ears positively tweaking.

More silence.

Luke took a few cautious steps into the deep alley, paused, and when no fire-breathing dragons burnt him into a crisp, walked into the alley. Midway through the alley, he suddenly found himself face to face with the most exquisite young man he had ever seen. Emerald eyes blazed at him in the near darkness.

"Wha…" Luke gaped.

"Kind sir, can you please furnish me with the whereabouts of your nearest leather apparel shop?" The young man asked, a slight frown on his face. "I just have to get out of this…clothing."

Luke gave him a once over, and as the dim light was stingy in its revelations, he could only see the figure before him swathed in some kind of all-encompassing cloth. The young man noticed his gaze, and continued, "Please expedite it, if you would please. This cloth is _chafing _my skin."

"It's…" Luke tried to speak, but his mouth, too busy with gaping, refused to cooperate.

"Can you bring me there then," the stranger said a little huffily. He paused. "I most certainly hope you can, _for your sake._" _And my sanity, _he privately added.

Luke blinked. His brain was stalled. Rusty gears protested loudly as he forced his brain back into gear. "Of course. If I may have your name…?" He asked as he led them out towards the main street.

"Just call me Lyle." The stranger answered shortly, fussing about his clothes.

"And I'm Lu…" Luke started.

"That is fine, Luke." His companion answered as they stopped just before entering the main walkway (pedestrians had been taught basic walkway manners ever since Elohim's population had rocketed sky high to minimise the escalating rates of 'walkway rage'). People jostled each other on the walkways as cars blared loudly along the ever-crowded road.

  
Lyle arched an elegant eyebrow; he had never seen a city so packed with people in all his years of reaping. Artificial light from a nearby streetlamp washed over them, prompting Lyle to look up in search for the sun. He looked. And found none. The skyscrapers grew taller than the millennia-old trees in the Old Forest (where he loved to romp) and were literally scraping the clouds. Any further and they would have breached the atmosphere. Visions of a porcupined planet threatened to swamp him and he firmly clamped those thoughts down.

While his charge (Luke liked that label, Lyle was his _charge_) was 'admiring' the scenery, Luke was admiring scenery of another kind. Long raven black hair flowed down his slender waist (it was hidden in the volumes of coarse brown sack cloth, but Luke believed it was slender) and long bangs framed a pale face, set alight by twin emeralds which blazed keenly at the dirty skyscrapers.

"Where is the leather apparel shop?" Lyle asked, unconsciously tucking a bang behind his left ear as he continued his scan of the surroundings.

"It's just across the street," Luke said, pointing to a mass of people in front of them. "Only, well you can't see it… It's getting too darn crowded here."

"Apparently," answered Lyle as he started to walk.

"Wait, stop!" Luke grabbed a robed arm, briefly letting it go as the coarse material chafed him. "We have to wait."

"For? The cows to return to the barn?" Lyle spat back. _Why did he have to come dressed like a doomsday prophet? Feathers, _and_ leather, will fly for this. _He promised himself.

To Luke's relief, a gap appeared in the sea of people not far from them, and, without relinquishing his hold on his charge, he led Lyle into the crowd.

Half an hour later (and after many elbow poking and shoving), they found themselves in front of said shop.

"Finally," the angel muttered. He smoothed down his slightly rumpled cassock, and then pushed open the tinted glass doors.

"Wait…" Luke called out as Lyle disappeared into the shop. "I don't think they will let you in," he finished lamely.

"_Sir,_ I'm afraid I can't let you in."  
  
Lyle glanced to his left, and saw an imperious looking salesgirl glaring at him. The few customers in the shop were giving him many versions of that same glare too.

Lyle fixed a Withering Gaze™  upon his harasser. "Is. There. A. Problem."

The salesgirl blanched, and the customers scurried away. "O..h.. of…cour..se… not…" she stammered.

"That is so much better. Now, if you would be kind enough to bring me that suit over there…"

Lyle entered the fitting area, draped his selected outfits over a bench, and whipped open a curtain to reveal…

"Good evening, Thir," Igor rasped from his spot in the tiny dressing room. "I have been waiting for you."

The angel narrowed his eyes. "What art thou doing here?" he demanded, unconsciously lapsing into archaic speech. Seeing denizens from the Abyss made him speak that way, to his private astonishment.

  
The Igor proffered a thick, coffee-stained and dog-eared book as his answer.

Lyle took the book without much grace from the Igor. He was still annoyed over his cassock and moccasins. He squinted at the creased cover. "_A Hell Angel™'s Essential Giude to Modern Earth?_" He eyed the Igor severely. "You misspelled _GUIDE_. When wast this printed?"

"A couple of dayth ago," the Igor answered evasively, eyeing the mirror which he undoubtedly came from.

"Really." Lyle opened the cover with his fingertips and flipped quickly through the book, a few pages obediently drifted out.

"I really mutht go now, Thir. My Mathter awaitth." Spinning on his heel, he limped as quickly as his great great great grandfather's legs could carry him towards the mirror and vanished into it.

Lyle sighed as he picked up the pages. _A couple of days ago._ _That would depend on the definition of 'a couple'. For the Feathered Angels™, a couple was five, for the Demons, a couple depended on the weather…_ He shoved the pages into the book, snapped it shut and threw it onto the bench. _Leather, sweet cool leather._ He picked up a long sleeved robe and brought it into the dressing room (though he took care not to use the room where the Igor had appeared).


End file.
